


wound the good (trust the wicked)

by Evelyn_fireheart



Series: she's dusted by flames (burns like one too) [3]
Category: Shadowhunters (TV), The Mortal Instruments Series - Cassandra Clare
Genre: (most of these characters are only in the story for a short time), Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, BAMF Clary Fray, Domestic Fluff, F/M, M/M, Parabatai Clary Fray & Isabelle Lightwood, Post-Finale
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-25
Updated: 2019-12-25
Packaged: 2021-02-26 01:47:00
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 14,554
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21575485
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Evelyn_fireheart/pseuds/Evelyn_fireheart
Summary: Call her what you will; Fairchild or Morgenstern, Angel or Goddess, Fae or Queen, Clary is a woman that could drown an ocean, a warrior that could turn a fall into flight, sacrifice into victory. And call him what you would, but Jace Herondale would always be glad to have known, and loved, her. He doesn't know if anyone else would ever wander willingly into his darkness as she had, so fearless in loving him. She had taken his life in her hands and sworn with a reckless smile that she would be careful with it.And then she had left him.She tricked them all into loving her soft smiles and laughing eyes and fae, quicksilver tongue- and then she had left them. The places where there had been inside jokes and family meals before were empty now, gaping holes in each of their lives. Where there had been a parabatai mark tattoed into Izzy's flesh there is only a scar; a symbol of the woman torn so viciously from their grasp.
Relationships: Clary Fray & Isabelle Lightwood, Clary Fray & Jace Wayland, Clary Fray/Jace Wayland, Helen Blackthorn/Aline Penhallow, Magnus Bane/Alec Lightwood, Minor or Background Relationship(s)
Series: she's dusted by flames (burns like one too) [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1399216
Comments: 4
Kudos: 46





	wound the good (trust the wicked)

**Author's Note:**

> Sorry for updating this so much, my computer is messed up and so I have to finish it like this. :(

She came into his life the same way she would eventually leave; a glimpse of burning red, the poisonous tint of springtime, and a whisper of a searing kiss. Anarchy and chaos found home in her spirit; lethal sparks twirled in her eyes with each challenge she issued, as graceful of a ballet dancer.

In all honesty, who could blame him for falling as hard and fast as he did?

Jace was not exactly a weak man, but not always a smart one, either. Maybe that was the issue. He had heard Isabelle bemoaning it before, loud complaints and orders to “Get a room!”, as well as ones that were whispered. These ones -the ones that were filled with spite and loss and jealousy- these were the private thoughts of a bitter, wounded woman, and he not once did he react as if he heard them.

He wasn’t always a smart man, but even he knew that was a battle he wouldn’t win. And he loved his sister enough to know that trying to fight that battle would cause nothing more than pain on her behalf.

Regardless of Izzy’s complaints (and how they grew lesser over time), Jace found himself inexplicably tied to the mundane-who-wasn’t. Humans were not usually so fiery, and it was intriguing. At first, he had reasoned that her ferocious nature was so suprising because she had no shadowhunter blood in her veins. Later, he thought she shocked him so because she had no training under her belt, and yet managed to walk and talk like a warrior. (Eventually, he accepted that Clary Fairchild would always shock him, because every facet of her existence contrasted what he knew in a way so dreadfully easy.)

She made the whole situation terribly unexpected and somewhat unsfettling… He found himself suddenly _wanting_ , and not being able to stop.

This was the true danger of Clarissa Fairchild. Her ability to make people _want_.

For a time, he had believed he was the only one, never seeing the aftershocks of Clary as he was too busy trying to stable his own precarious foundations to prevent himself tipping into the unknown.

This ignorance soon faded.

* * *

Alec was the first, surprisingly.   
Jace had always thought his brother to be a stoic man, loving and caring, yes -but behind an impenetrable façade built from multiple indestructible walls. Clearly, Clary had no care for such silly things, and had promptly destroyed them.

Even so, Jace hadn’t realized until Clary had suffered a small injury while training. A demon and/or a flying beverage of some kind (Jace) was usually the only thing that prompted such quick emotions from the Head of the Institute, but within a blink there had been a stele in his hand and he was easing onto the ground, a look on his face that reminded Jace of shattering glass.

“Where’s an empty space,” Alec had said, knees hitting the ground in a jolt that shuddered visibly through his body. “I’ll do an iratze.” 

Sometimes Jace wondered if Alec knew how openly he telegraphed his love. Then Jace considered the way he caught himself staring at a certain red-head sometimes, and instead wondered if he was just a bit hypocritical.

Clary had gone to roll her eyes, but then winced when the movement pulled at her cut. Jace abruptly pulled himself from his thoughts to squeeze her hand, shifting her into his lap subconsciously. (He didn’t complain when he realized, though. Clary fit perfectly; why would he?)

Alec stilled at the wince, then burst into movement, lifting her free hand with delicate care and rolled up her sleeve. He huffed. 

Clary sighed loudly -though it hitched slightly in pain- and joked, “Seriously, Alec, I’m fine,” she smiled warmly, if not a little tensely, up at him. “No need to be such a big baby.”

Jace looked up to his brother, a slight warning in his eyes. He didn’t think Alec’d do anything, but he could hear the barely concealed pain in her voice and didn’t want to risk it. It’s not that he thought she couldn’t handle it exactly- more like she shouldn’t have to.

Thankfully, he didn’t say anything. Lips pursed and brow crinkled, Alec simply turns her arm over and started drawing an iratze. Each movement of the stele was carefully slow, laced with a care he’d never seen Alec give an outsider before. Well. Other than Jace, of course.

“What happened?” Alec’s gaze was sharp on Jace’s, tinged with a fading terror. His lips softened from the brutal line when he looked back to Clary.

“It was an accident,” Jace said, a refusal to take blame settling in his bones. Only he put blame on his shoulders, and he would never hurt Clary.

“What. Happened,” he said again, voice somehow harsher. Jace couldn’t see Clary’s face to see if it hurt her, but he found himself curling his arms protectively around her waist anyway. 

“Alec. I’m fine, seriously, these things happen, okay? You know this, I know this- it was my fault,” Clary said. Jace watched the way it settled in his brother’s eyes, like a pebble settling on the ocean floor. It seemed to break through the current of protectiveness, and Alec seemed to remember that Jace was his brother and not actually in the wrong. ( _Not completely, anyway,_ he reminded himself, _I assign the blame and this time I deserve it._ )

“Alright.”

“Yeah?” Clary said, humor forced into her tone. It was mocking, and seemed as if she were taking a step back into the normal parameters of their relationship. Teasing, insults, and care.

Suddenly, the moment seemed a bit too private for Jace to be there. 

“Yes,” Alec said decisively, the word carried on a sigh. He eased back onto his heels and, with a slight nod from Clary, stood up on trembling legs. In turn, Jace eased Clary from his lap and made his own checks on her head. The bleeding had stopped, and the skin was slowly stitching itself back together. Her hands were soaked with blood, though, and she was far too pale. Almost as pale as-

Jace forced it from his mind. Going over that terrifying day wouldn’t remove the weight of the mistake from his shoulders, nor should it. The guilt for Clary’s blood-soaked form and Alec’s blue-tinged skin would always rest with him.

“I’m to assume you were being an idiot then, am I?” Jace tensed, and then forced himself to relax when Clary’s face lit up. _By the Angel_ , he thought to himself, _how did I ever earn the right to stand by your side?_

Clary hummed, the sound rising and falling to a memory only she could hear. It was deep and low, and Jace suddenly found himself wishing to hear her sing. He figured it would be fierce and lovely, obviously, but would it be strong and low and sultry, like flowers unfurling from the grasp of winter, like her hair splashed against Jace’s pillow? Or would it be light and fleeting- guileless as the summer wind as it scurries through the greenhouse?

His cheeks burned. How did he get so fucking distracted by her so easily? _Like a butterfly in a garden,_ he thought with an edge of a wish to it. He scolded himself again. _Too far, Jace,_ he warned himself, _no need to scare her away. She’ll go of her own volition soon enough- there’s no point in speeding it up and losing the one person I can’t live without sooner than necessary._

He looked up to realize he had missed Clary’s reply, but her irises were lit from within -the shine of a lamp through spring leaves greeting him and stunning him silent.

With a turn of his head, he saw Alec standing with his hands in his pockets, a smile fighting the downturns of his lips.   
“Yes, I assume it’s hard being such a midget, isn’t it?” Jace barked out a laugh. Clary pretended to fume, mouth forming an adorable pout, but Jace saw the feral, wild tinge of joy to her eyes in every crease. Clary knew how to lie with her wicked, silver tongue, but she was a wild thing at heart.

Challenge was one of her greatest loves.

Jace’s heart gave a pathetic, weary sigh and flopped away to the unknown. Probably to Clary, honestly. _No._ Jace curses weakly at his figurative heart. (He ends up just feeling even more stupid.)

Clary stood. And Angel only knows how, but sometimes he forgot that she was a shadowhunter, same as him, only to be reminded by moments like these.

At times- when she was rising from the ground with all the grace of Raziel, or when she was writhing beneath him with all the glory of Ithuriel in her movements and bliss shining in her face- she looked like an angel reborn. Her arms slid from his grasp with a whisper of fabric, and she stood with a ferocious snarl on her lips.

Just for a second, Alec looked cowed. _Impressive_ , Jace thinks, only slightly staggered. It darted away after a moment, hidden beneath the barriers that had made him Head of the Institute, but for that sliver of a heartbeat, a mix of awe and fear was stark on his face. It made one wonder what Clary could do when truly unleashed.

God, he wanted to be there when she did.

Alec looked firm and silent in action, but there was a viciousness gathering in his shoulders, a wave about to crest, and Jace knew his parabatai wanted to be there to see it too.

Jace knew -for the first time ever- that Alec would be helping her. A force all of his own.

May the Angel help whoever was on the other side of them when they unleashed themselves; Jace certainly wouldn’t.

(He’s not always a smart man, but even he knows that this is a battle he would _never_ win.)

* * *

Isabelle's adoration for Clary doesn’t sneak up on him. At least, not entirely.

On one hand, Izzy had always wanted a female friend. Or just a friend of any type. (She had never truly made one before. Her brothers didn’t count.) On the other, Izzy was a Lightwood, through and through. Competition set their blood to fire, and Clary was perhaps the first opponent Isabelle knew she couldn’t defeat.

In hindsight, this had likely made everything between them that much more volatile. Like two coyotes on the harsh plains of the desert, battling for control whilst the sun beat the earth beneath their feet into submission. Battling for what dominance they could glean in a world overshadowed by the triumphs and arrogance of men.  
  
And so, when the dust settled between the two fearsome women, there was a pact. An... unbreakable vow, if you will. Parabatai.

Jace wouldn’t say he was jealous, exactly. He had his own parabatai, and he wouldn’t change Alec for the world. But there was a certain closeness between the two that Jace would never touch upon, or particularly understand. The best way Jace has to understand it was a pair of kindjals. Forged in fire and brimstone, dangerous separate, but utterly deadly together. 

Together, Clary and Isabelle were balanced chaos, and as sharp-tongued as any fae. As much as it irritated him sometimes, Jace didn’t have the right to comment on that.

Let them burn the world down, for all he cared. He would just sit back and hope Clary would dance with him on the ashes when she was done.

* * *

Simon was never a question that needed answering, or an understanding that had to be earnt. He remembers Clary’s fire, the way she had been immovable and fierce when faced with disrespect towards her then-mundane friend.

_(“He would die for me!” Jace had been lost, blind._

_“Now you understand me and Simon.” Unchangeable. Merciless. Ash and dust and a candle refusing to melt.)_

He had once thought that Simon would’ve been Clary’s perfect other half -the perfect parabatai- if it was ever possible. There were too many reasons that couldn't happen -could _never_ happen- now. It was still an occasional thought though, an almost subconscious respect towards the bond he witnessed between the two childhood friends. Sometimes Jace glimpses a mix of guilt and wistfulness in the tightness of Clary’s mouth, and wonders if she has ever thought the same. 

Enough said.

* * *

Magnus is easy.

Magnus is sparks and brimstone, smooth notes and well-cut clothes and cutting words smoothed over with summertime. He burns with a divine kind of beauty, despite his demon blood, and he is near enough to a mirror of Clary. She adores him; it's clear in the way she smiles like the sun is being reborn whenever Alec and Magnus visit them at the Institute to stay for a few days. 

The feeling is mutual. Magnus shows his love for Clary in small things -not the ostentatious acts and words he elects in when approaching his relationship with Alec, nor the teasing, sharp-tongued way he converses with Isabelle. He is soft, with Clary. 

Malleable, in a way demon blood is meant to prevent.

Gifts are always present, from boxes of her favorite tea and rare, handmade paint brushes to helping her with any issue she faces and letting her use his apartment whenever she asks, free of charge. Clary does not return the love the same way, but still loves him in return. Her love is communicated through brushing touches to Magnus's arms when they're working side by side, cups of coffee pressed into shaking hands in the early morning and relaxed hugs when they are both content and feeling safe.

In all honesty, together they resemble a pair of cats. (Not that Jace would ever voice this thought to them. He’s not that senseless.)

They lounge together, they trust one another, and at the first sign of any danger they are immediately prepared to launch into the line of fire for the other, claws out and teeth bared. The resemblance is uncanny. 

In addition, they are both remarkably closed off, except when they are with those they love and trust. They wear each other down, like against like, steel against steel. It’s an impressive thing, to watch a shadowhunter break down the barriers of a downworlder with such ease, let alone a downworlder with such power.

As High Warlock, Magnus had responsibility on his shoulders that should, logically, make it even harder for him to bond with a shadowhunter- and yet it doesn't prevent their relationship developing at all.

Perhaps it's because they are both forces of nature, creatures of the wild in a way that few are in this century. Both of them have a soul threaded with immortality. Both are made from all the impossibilities of the world, crafted from heaven and hell and, sometimes, magic.

Occasionally, when he is distracted and only watching Clary out of the corner of his eye, the runes she draws spark with gold and for a moment there is pure power glowing at her fingertips. It's terrifying, in a way that fills Jace with guilt, but it's also shockingly beautiful. Which in itself is unusual.

Before Clary, he had never found magic beautiful, let alone seen the actions of a warlock as beautiful. Magic was a tool to be wielded against one's enemies, but only when needed and never when not. Shadowhunters do not value warlocks for their magic, only what they can do for them, and so once the magic is done, they are cast out.

In a way, magic is seen by the Clave as a necessary evil. Clary had forced this sentiment into the light and exposed it for what it really was: prejudice.

Sometimes he still felt the aftershocks of that realization- he had known the Clave viewed warlocks as lesser, but he did not truly understand how that had made it so what should be a simple trade of payment for help given was instead seen as a weakness. As if working with a warlock was tantamount to baring your throat to the enemy.

Before Clary, he hadn't known that this was ingrained in him, rooted deeply amongst all the other poisonous vines the Clave had fed and watered.

Then again, a lot had changed because of Clary Fairchild. This was hardly the most world-shattering one. Clary, as she always had, made this change easier to carry. He learned to move past what his conditioning made him think, and instead think through each action he took against downworlders on his own, without the well-meaning, but smothering, influence of his mother and Alec.

He learned more about Magnus, and grew to understand him- if only for his connection to Clary.

Eventually, what he found most awe inspiring in the warlock was not his magic and great influence, but rather his quick-silver wit, and the way he loved. Selflessly, and with great compassion. Anyone who made Clary smile the way Magnus Bane did would always deserve his respect, as well as his gratefulness.

There have been days of fear and rage when only the strong call of _"Biscuit."_ eased Clary's pacing and turbulent emotions.

Magnus Bane was now a creature of wonder for Jace, as well as a man he would one day call brother.

* * *

There is an element of immortality to Clary, and it takes a while before Jace can truly understand it (he saw it, clear as day, the first day they met). She keeps getting back up, no matter what, and there’s this divine, vicious glint in her eyes that says she’ll break the world apart if she thought it was necessary and _never_ look back.

Clary is merciless and callous and cruel in a way that terrifies- a way that strikes fear into the hearts of the elders. She’s young in the way that belongs to revolutions, to dynasties being overthrown and to hope scarred into the flesh of child soldiers; their battleground stages and swords made of stone-cold words.

She is brilliant and compassionate and bright, her words little more than sunlight tumbling from her lips that warm and blind both. A flower, in a thousand hidden aspects; delicate in the careful way of war, and with every word, every breath, she reaches up proudly for the sky. Jace couldn’t help but see this divine, vicious quality in it, in the way she fights for sunlight, digging her heels into the ground and living with a valor and poison-tainted grace that spoke of warriors and queens and heroes-turned-saints.

No matter what the world told her -mundane and shadowhunter alike- she lived and went on, chin raised and shoulders squared into the sun. Clary had taught him that life, by its very nature, was brave.

This is what the stories don't tell you: Persephone chose it. She chose the destruction she craved and the lover she adored -she chose the immortal flowers in her bones over those that grew and withered so pathetically below her throne.

She was daughter to the King of Gods and Men, and Princess of Olympus. The Dark King had never been the one who placed the crown on her head, nor was he the one who gave her immortality. Kore was a goddess in her own right, a being of power and chaos and life. She was Lady of the Spring and no man, god or not, could take away her choice.

And as the sun is drawn to oblivion, as the stars adore the dark, Kore asked her lover to give her the night to drink in a goblet crafted from human souls, and he obliged, for there was no love greater than that held by Hades for his queen. She drank it deeply, and with each sip her power grew past life, past the power of any god born in Olympus's marble cage.

Death and Life intertwined, and they both became stronger for it.

Sin itself lived in that liquid night, blood and rust and divinity in the drops of darkness that stained her lips. But she was not a naïve child- she was not the precious, breakable little thing her mother thought her to be, or the malleable heir her father wished she could become.  
Her name was Kore, maiden of life and eternal light, and she took each pearl of death deep into her soul, into that which made her, and she alone allowed it to sprout. 

Her aspect was spring, and each god sitting on those pretty little pedestals were part of her domain. They were immortal, supposedly unkillable, but she was life itself. They only lived as she willed it. 

And so, Kore became Persephone, became Queen and Mercy and Wife, and as the clouds wept glass and summer had its final breath, she learnt how to love her Lord Hades, how to love a man with cold in his heart and death thriving at his fingertips.

Demeter's rage became winter wind, her screams the sound of glaciers breaking and her tears the first snow. But the Lady was wise, and true, and Persephone had grown tired of living with her mother. There is only so much time that can be spent in a life of safety, and mildness, and perfect glowing light, when you are a creature of wildness and royalty.

There is no cage strong enough to hold the chaos-bringer, no bars with will enough to hold back the Princess of Olympus, and certainly no castle fortified enough to hold back her wrath.

This is the story of Persephone and Hades- the truth of it. 

She was duality in all her beauty, maiden goddess of life and Queen of the Underworld, Lady of all that's dead. Apologies and assurances will never pass her lips, just as spring never falters or hesitates in leaving, regardless of the winter that follows.

Know that when you are dead, she will rule over you with her heartless husband by her side, and know that he loves her too much to interfere with her ruling. King and Queen rule together in their obsidian castle, walk side by side on the fields of punishment, and there is little he would not give his Lady. 

Their story was what taught the mortals to beware love. For all that it made the world go around, it was a terrifying thing to behold.

In some worlds- this one, perhaps- Jace thinks it still is. To him, Clary is life. She is the resistance of flowers to frost, the beauty of flames in a forgotten forest. Her words are smooth and crafted carefully, and slip from her lips as thoughtlessly as water through rocks in a stream. If Persephone exists, if the old gods still walk the earth, then that's what Clary is.

Life could never find a better home than in her sharp smiles, nor could light ever hope to shine as bright as she did, coated in blood and fighting viciously, knives glinting in her hands. 

But perhaps to name her as a goddess would belittle her, give her limits he had no right to give. Clary names herself, after all, and she knows limits as well as Jace does.

Safe to say, she doesn't.

If she were Persephone, or had been, then Jace knows he would have spent his life trying to earn the right to pray to her. He would toil and work his fingers to the bone if only to gain the right to call her his queen, and to be able to exist in her domain. He would give up so much, just to exist with her. 

And if, in a past life, he had been Hades? 

An honor he was lucky enough to receive, and would never be thankful enough for. He likes to think that in this world of gods and magic he imagines; he is the Hades to her Persephone. Jace certainly likes to imagine that in his world of shadows and angels he is the dark to her light.

The death to her eternal glow.

Call her what you will; Fairchild or Morgenstern, Angel or Goddess, Fae or Queen, she is a woman that could drown an ocean, a warrior that could turn a fall into flight, sacrifice into victory. And call him what you would, but Jace Herondale would always be glad to have known, and loved, her. 

They may not have many years before one of them becomes ash in the City of Bones, and he will lose the ability to touch her and love her in all her fire and life, but if he was always certain that she would return after a mission then- well, then he may not cherish every touch of their lips, every laugh she gifted him. He might not treasure their mindless dances in the Institute's kitchen after curfew as much as he did, or might forget to tell her how much he loved her, in every way a man could.

And yet, if he could make her immortal in a way that would not hurt her, a way that would not stain her lips with blood, he would. Perhaps it would change things, perhaps he would grow complacent in his care for her, but Jace doubted it. He would still love her for all the moments she was willing to give him, and would never spend a minute holding her hand without relishing the warmth of it, the life in it.

For all that immortality affects a relationship, for all the patterns of teenage love and the pain they have both suffered through, Jace would not question the radiance of their love, in this life and any other, or allow himself to think for a moment that he would take anything less than what she gave him. Every second with her would be remembered, until the moment where she got bored with their life together.

Still, whenever Jace doubted himself, or the love he shared with her, he reminded himself that his Lady of Spring had chosen him. Even if she were not Persephone, if the gold of her blood was from angels and not the Old Gods, there was nothing and no one under the sky above that could take her choice from her.

Clary Morgenstern had wandered willingly into his darkness. She had taken his life in her hands and sworn with a reckless smile that she would be careful with it. 

And if there were a time where she grows tired of the oblivion, as Persephone had once grown tired of the light, then he would cut himself from her vines as quickly as he could. It would be his last gift to her, in a world where he was not the Lord of Riches.

A world where he had nothing to give but himself.

* * *

It did not matter what or who Clary Fairchild was, in the end. It did not matter which name you called her or which realm she hailed from.

She was taken from them, regardless.

The angels were not beings allowed to go against what has been ordained, nor creatures that could go against fate as He willed it. 

Perhaps they might have fought against it, if they could. Ithuriel might have. His blood ran in Clary’s veins, linking them in a way that most would never understand- the bond something not fully describable. It was forgiveness, and mercy, and love of the highest order.

It was a little girl growing up with an angel trapped in her necklace, and becoming an illogical creature of Hell and Heaven, shadowhunter and downworlder.

It was a mundane with the sight realizing her destiny, becoming that which was foretold for centuries. The last Morgenstern. Child of Lucifer; the First Archangel, Angel of the Morning Star and Light-Bringer. Damnation burned in her bones as surely as Purity did, and it showed in each vapid smile and flicker of her eternally bored eyes.

She was the closest the angels would ever come to a daughter, to a creation of their own, and was loved as such. They had never been able to love Mankind before, not truly, for that was the honor and right of the Throne. But they could now, and so perhaps Ithuriel might have pitied her, might have spoken on her behalf to Raziel. Perhaps Raziel themselves felt pity for her, for this child that had been born of their blood and the blood of their brothers.

Jace would always choose to believe that they did. Anything else would only serve to hurt him, to destroy his belief that one day she would be returned to him.

It did not matter how many loved Clarissa Morgenstern, in the end. Their names did not matter, nor did the realm they hailed from. She had made her choice, as was her divine right.

Clary walked her path alone, and she took the Throne’s price upon her shoulders with nothing but acceptance and strength on her lips.

In her years with them, Clary had become of the greatest shadowhunters ever known. She had been intrinsic to the Second Great War against the Circle, and had used her angelic power to slaughter her own family in sacrifice to their cause.

There was no doubt that she would go down in history as a formidable warrior. Jace had just always wished that she would also be told as being a person who had been loved- who had lived a long and victorious life filled with adventure.

He had hoped that she would go down in history as his wife. Or he her husband, either would be fine, as long as it was true.

And, though it was agony to admit it, she would still have a life of love and adventure. She would fall in love again and again, would travel around the world without worrying about demons and bloodshed, and would eventually find a lover to marry. 

Worst of all, he wanted all of these things for her. He just also wanted all of these things _with_ her.

And yet he did not join her in the mundane world.

* * *

Sometimes Jace wondered whether he was a coward for letting her leave the Shadow World alone. Of course, she had left him of her own accord, with nothing but a last dance and letter as a goodbye, but to use that as a defense was a coward’s play.

She had been given a choice with no good options to pick from: either let her brother live and let the world burn, or use a outlawed rune to kill her brother against the Angel’s wishes, and lose her life and those she loved. Jace would never say she made the wrong choice because -even though he hated Raziel for it- it was so beautifully heroic of her; an inevitable event in what seemed to be their own personal tragedy.

It was never her fault. No, all the blame rested on Jace’s shoulders for this one.

No matter what the others said, he had made his choice, too. He had made the coward’s play, to live a life of repetition and war, rather than a life with the woman he treasured most in the world.

And Clary- Clarissa Fairchild was no more. The woman he had once loved, still loved, had faded away with the last of her runes.

Occasionally Jace would visit her in her new life and would watch her thrive in her new environment, and he would remember that it wasn’t new at all. Clary had lived a whole different life before he had met her, and she would live a whole different life even though he now knew the taste of her lips and the feel of her love.

He had no lasting impact on Clary, and it broke him. Their time together was nothing but a light breeze to Clary, even while it tattooed his flesh in scars and runes.

Some things didn’t change, thankfully. She still moves like a flame given flesh, same as she probably had even before she pushed her way into the Shadow-world, but she also retained the sharp way she had learnt to walk, always quick and smooth, every step thought through. The conversations he overheard demonstrated the same unpredictable cleverness that she had shown with both her battle plans and her exchanges with Alec, and she still spoke clearly, piercingly, like she was constantly struggling against the possibility of being overlooked. 

When she’s walking amongst her paintings, she’s as confident as ever, and when she’s pissed off her eyes still glitter as if ignited with some kind of immortal wrath. Izzy would be proud to know that she still sashays with the manner of elegance that tells you that she could kill you in a hundred different ways, just with the heel of her stiletto.

He can never tell her -or any of the others- this information. Even though they would understand, they would only reiterate that he’s not supposed to be keeping tabs on her. They say that it’s unhealthy, that he needs to move on and let her go, but it’s only been months and he had loved her for so much longer than that, so much _more_ than that.

He watches her from the shadows, and learns to understand this Clary Fray, who was both whole and missing at the same time. 

She exists as only part of the woman he once knew, but he loves her anyway and misses her still.

* * *

Clary gets a boyfriend.

It nearly tears him to shreds when he finds out, and he suddenly realizes why everyone has such an issue with him seeing her still. He had known she would move on -for her there was nothing to move on _from_ \- but knowing something in the abstract and actually seeing it is wholly different.

He can say, _‘She’s going to find love and get married, and have children,’_ and he can act okay enough afterwards to receive less than the average amount of Concerned Alec Looks a day than he normally does (13.5). He can even visit her art shows, stand like a fucking creep outside her new apartment, and visit her in the cafe where she works during the day, and accept the fact that these small, important bits of her life are forever changed.

He can even accept that their relationship would never survive in the mortal world, because he’s somewhat certain that without a sword in his hand and a war to fight he’s nothing but a specter of a man, and that’s not something Clary should have to deal with when he wouldn’t even be able to explain it.

But seeing the way she smiles when her new boyfriend walks through the cafe door -hearing her laugh with him, watching her drape her arms around another man’s waist and lean forward onto her tiptoes to reach his mouth- is too much. 

It’s all too much.

As he’s walking back to the Institute, he thinks of all the things he didn’t say when he had the chance.

Like how her hair reminds him of autumn, and that he loves the little braids she does in it every day, and that each little plait makes her look like an old god with all their intricacies. Or how he loved the way she kissed him, because he had never felt loved just by the way someone pressed their lips against his before, and that he would never be grateful enough for the words she gifted him. She had taught him how to love someone delicately, kindly, and how to be loved in turn.

So many things that he never said, and she deserved to know. 

Jace knows that the others feel the same way. Magnus still talks to her, though it’s different. The warlock’s eyes are always sad whenever Jace asks him how Clary’s doing, and he doesn’t think it’s pity for him.

Magnus doesn’t call her biscuit any more.

She doesn’t know him as anything more than an acquaintance of her best friend, who had helped them find a new place to live. The degree of closeness they had once shared is lost, not to time or death as Magnus is used to, but to unembellished cruelty.

Alec is hard to describe. He gets angry quicker and smiles less. Sometimes he makes snarky remarks, and when nothing but silence answers him he folds into himself. These are spaces Jace both doesn’t know how to fill and could never- not without hurting Alec further. In the first few weeks, these silences happened often, and after each one Alec would disappear.

Whether for hours or days, he would return fractured and red-eyed, and he never told anyone where he’d been.

Luke lost his daughter.

Whether it was the magic or the Mist or the fucking Angel himself, she believes that he was killed in the same car crash that also butchered her mother. There is no chance for Luke to ever enter her life again. Jace, Magnus and Alec all have a chance; they can all see her and not risk making her fate worse if she sees them. 

Luke can’t. He’s got Maryse to support him, as well as Alec and Magnus, but Luke and Jace only meet up every now and then. Luke says it’s because he’s busy with his new job, but Jace suspects it’s just too painful for him. Jace had been at Clary’s side near constantly since she first learnt about their world, and he was the last person she saw. The last person who saw _her_.

Jace doesn’t resent Luke for blaming him. He does too. 

Simon, of course, faces the same issues Luke does.

Clary had returned to the place she had once known as a second home, remembering nothing but somehow knowing her parents were dead, and had been faced with his best friend's mother, rather than the smiling face of the one boy she'd always been able to trust. She had found out her best friend was dead as well, and had been forced to start a new life alone. Jace couldn't imagine her pain, nor did he want to.

When he does think about it, he questions who truly feels the full extent of the loss. Clary has lost her best friend in a series of tragic events that left her jobless, homeless, friendless, and inhibited with a kind of depression most don’t get up from.

But it was Clary, and she could not live without reaching out to others. And so, she kept reaching out, on all but the darkest of days, and Jace watched with a mix of jealousy and appreciation, as hands reached out to her in return.

Simon does not resent her for it, Jace knows that much. _She deserves it,_ he had said, face shining with a devotion he knew all too well. Body and soul and almost all of his heart- they were parabatai in all but mark. _All of it. Clary Fray can’t survive without human contact, and she has a kind of stubbornness that makes her refuse to just survive, too._ Jace didn’t correct him on her name. He figured it was too late to matter. _I wish I could be there for her; I wish I could be there with her and she could be here with us. But she would not be who she is if she hadn’t sacrificed her life for us, and though I would never have loved her less for it, she would never have forgiven herself. And still, she deserves the world, and still we cannot give it to her._

_But we can give her this, Jace. We can give her peace and quiet, and an empty art studio and safe streets. You and the shadowhunters, and me and Alec and the downworld- we can give her the chance to live a life that she adores, even if it’s not one with us._ Simon’s eyes fell shut, briefly, a sigh loosening the tension in his shoulders.

_I know it’s not enough. It never will be. But it’s all we’ve got to give, and I know you would give her much more. So would I, and so would every damn person in this building._ Simon had grimaced, then, as if he had not expected to launch into a speech when they were meant to be training. It pulled at his lips, and it was probably meant to be a smile but it couldn’t be- not when there was a pain in his eyes too old and knowing for a nineteen-year-old to bear.

* * *

Isabelle is probably the one who feels more pain and grief over losing Clary than he does. She was a ghost around the institute the first few months, and only recently started speaking again. Her eyes are cold and empty, but there is always lingering agony in them waiting at the sidelines. 

Jace doesn’t know how she’s still alive. He wouldn’t survive the loss of Alec, not in any universe and certainly not in this one, where they are bonded for life. As it is, his sister's eyes are constantly overshadowed with pain and strife, anguish and rage and loss in the twist of her lips and the curl of her fingers, but it is not as bad as it had been when the mark first disappeared. 

* * *

Jace had been staring after Clary when the screaming started. His eyes were still resting upon where he'd seen her last, tracing the curve of the archway and wondering if he should follow her. She had said she was okay, and he knew he should respect her wishes for some air, but he had also seen the way her expression was a mix of agony and soul-deep exhaustion. Clary had wept as if she would never see him again, even as she promised to return.

Jace frowned. Perhaps he should go after her: better to beg forgiveness than ask for permission, right? Just as he started striding purposefully through the doors, there was a loud crash, and the sound of a glass shattering. Turning around gradually, he looked for who had collapsed, to see if they needed help. Heartbeat speeding up in worry, he saw it was Izzy, clawing at her chest as if there was something trapped there. He had begun to march towards her instead when she opened her mouth and a harsh, guttural scream came out.

It sounded like the end, like the world was being broken over a sword between one of Izzy's breaths and the next, rupturing into a million fragments that acted like shrapnel, entrenching in the hearts of those surrounding her. Alec, who sat next to her, clutching her hand tight in his, and Magnus standing at his new husband's back, a hand on his shoulder and an expression of acute sadness streaked with worry.

They were surrounded by others: Simon, Aline, and Aline’s new girlfriend at the forefront of the mass, but Jace's mind was stuck on Magnus's expression and the way the warlock looked like he knew what was happening and loathed it. His mind linked his brother-in-law's expression with the way Isabelle's scream seemed to be shattering her apart, and he almost collapsed.

His sister's scream was cataclysmic, resonating with the power of an angelic bond being severed.

Jace began to run.

He knew where their mark had been placed because he had observed it being put there with his own eyes. They had worn black, grime-streaked jeans and durable combat boots, with knives hidden in every spot they could, and they had worn the shortest of tops; a slight thing that resembled a red bandage wrapped around their breasts.

So their runes could be placed above their hearts.

Then they had each put on a leather jacket, slid their personal weapons into their respective scabbards, and launched into hunting demons for the first time as parabatai as if they were made for it.

And every time Jace had undressed Clary afterwards, he had placed a kiss on that rune as he did every other, and he sent a prayer to the skies and any being that might listen, that the mark may remain for the rest of her lifetime. He had thanked his lover for adoring his family as he did, and he had been so grateful that there would always be someone protecting Izzy when she dove too deep into the shadows, someone who would not only climb out of the darkness by her side, but would relish the time spent there. 

Izzy was clawing at her chest, now. Her nails were gouging deep into the skin, leaving red marks behind each vicious slash. Jace finally skidded to a stop at her side and his heart fell. He had never seen her in so much pain. She was howling more than screaming now, and the sound was rough with a million different things he didn't want to think about. 

Alec looked up at him, every sign of happiness gone from his face. He looked as if he was breaking too. "What do we do, Jace?" 

Jace brushed away the hair that had fallen in his eyes, starting to pace on the spot. "I don't- I don't know," he said, trying to act like he wasn't panicking. His voice broke anyway. The different duties pulling at him tugged at his soul. Isabelle needed him -him and Alec and Simon and Clary- but Jace knew what she was clawing at, what that mark _meant_. _Where had Clary gone, and what was happening to her? "_ I need to- Clary- I need to find Clary."

"I've never seen this before," Magnus said, eyes clouded with the past. "This is not what happens when-" he paused, looking down at Isabelle. Those awful sounds had died down into whimpers now, but she was shaking so much that Jace was fairly sure nothing could reach her. Other than Clary, of course. Magnus seemed to realize this too, and his face hardened. "-when a shadowhunter's parabatai dies. It is painful, but not this prolonged. She had been trembling before she collapsed, so perhaps Cla- her parabatai is still alive."

Simon startles. His eyes had been locked on Isabelle’s crumpled form, but at this his gaze darts up. “What?” he says, stepping back in his shock. “Clary’s in danger? I thought she was here?”

“No, she- she left for a walk a while ago. Wanted some peace and quiet, apparently.” Jace forces a grim chuckle past the lump in his throat. Simon pauses, conflicted. Jace knows the feeling; they both must make the same choice between lover and sister, and they both must choose the same. “Go to her,” he says, quietly. “I can’t leave Izzy like this, just as you can’t leave Clary. So, go to her.” He meets the vampire’s eyes unwaveringly. “Bring her back to us.”

Simon only pauses for another second, meeting Alec’s eyes and receiving a brief nod, before he leaves. Here one moment, gone the next. His vamp speed is probably the best chance they have of finding Clary- that, and his enhanced senses. Jace doesn’t say what he’s thinking; that emotion clouds judgement, and that Simon won’t be able to find Clary when his senses are clogged with what he could lose if he doesn’t.

The look on Alec’s face tells him he already knows, and so does his husband.

The warlock's knuckles were white where he grasped Alec's shoulder, but his brother did not flinch. Isabelle had curled up into a ball on the floor, her hands tugged out of Alec's grasp, and Alec's shaking hand came up to rest on that of his husband. They both seemed disconnected, but Jace couldn't find it in himself to comfort them right now. That was what Clary did, and he had never had her level of compassion. He had gone to a place where he knew only two things: that he was a being forged by death and sacrifice, and that if Clary had been hurt, the world would burn.

Aline stepped forward. "Leave," she said, strong and fierce and unmoving. Her girlfriend stood slightly behind her, ears pointed and grip tight on Aline, eyes sharp with a kind of ice that perfectly backed Aline's fire. An ice that knew no mercy, for it had formed in the depths of hell itself. An immovable object found herself an unstoppable force, then. For a second, he found it in himself to be proud.

"Contact the silent brothers. The strongest trackers will immediately start trying to reach Clary Fairchild, but I want a minimum of six patrols dispersed amongst the city, each with at least 3 shadowhunters, until she is found. You will not return until 2 hours past nightfall, or until I give the order, do you understand?"

A mix of dissent and acceptance arose, and Aline's girlfriend raised a brow. Jace rather liked her already. The noise lowered but one clear voice rose in the quiet. "You are not the Head of the Institute, nor her second in command, Aline Penhallow. You have no jurisdiction, and no right to command."

Aline's girlfriend stepped forward, and as she opened her mouth, her elongated canines gleamed. A dozen or so shadowhunters gripped their swords, and Jace marked their faces absently. He would deal with that later. For now, he only knelt down to Isabelle's side, and laid a hand on the curve of her spine. She tensed, and he murmured to her, "It's me, Iz. We're here for you." 

She rasped a response, but he could not hear it over the others. He glanced up to Aline pleadingly, and she nodded. Jace drooped, and allowed himself to lean into Alec. 

"The Head of the Institute is obviously indisposed, and her parabatai could be dying, and you wish to talk of rights and petty issues such as command? Do any of you have a parabatai?" Aline's girlfriend said, standing strong and undaunted in the face of their bigotry, before Aline could even open her mouth. "No? Then how can you possibly understand it? I certainly don't, and yet I have the human decency to support Aline in her effort to keep this Institute running. I would think that you would do the same."

"What do you know of human decency, fae?" It was the same man. He clearly didn't know when to back down. Idiot. 

"My _name_ is Helen Blackthorn, daughter of Nerissa and Andrew, Head of the Los Angeles Institute, and I would think that I know quite a lot more than you, shadowhunter," Helen hissed. "Now, I would suggest that you do what she damn well says, or we will have an issue."

Aline tugged at her hand, but Jace thought she looked impressed, and vaguely amused. “Down, girl,” she murmured under her breath. His cousin was flushed, though, and looked like she was the furthest thing possible from angry.

The shadowhunter in question, Michael Farrund, lunged back, shock and malice in his eyes. "Are you threatening me? I could have you thrown in the cells for that, you know. I have witnesses," he announced smugly. He didn't seem to have noticed the sudden disappearance of everyone else, who were likely already following Aline's orders. (No one liked Michael.)

"Yes, I am." Helen smiled, large and joyful and completely unsettling, and Michael finally reacted properly: he backed up. "I think you'll find that you have no witness, no support, _no one_ , to back your frankly insane claims that I, a valued member of the Clave, would threaten such a... vulnerable foot soldier such as yourself."

Michael gulped. "See, I am a mix of shadowhunter and faerie, a mix of angel and demon and mortal, and if you dare to threaten me and mine, then you will discover that while I know human decency, sometimes I- well, I guess you could say that I forget it." Helen's grin died down until it was but a slight twist of her lips, her hands hovering at her waist, where a magnificent sword the length of her thigh rested. "If such a thing were to occur, I think that I would shred you apart with my bare fucking hands, and we will then see if you, shadowhunter, are made any differently to me."

Finally, Michael nodded, and hurried to the door. When he reached the doorframe, however, Helen clicked her tongue. The man turned slowly, terrified, and Jace might've even felt sorry for him. Would have, if it wasn't for his sister shaking under his palm, and his girlfriend in possible danger. Jace's jaw tightened and he thought, _no. I am not feeling anything for that asshole, when he is racist and selfish both. They might die because of his blathering._

As if hearing his thoughts, Helen drew a throwing knife from her calf so quickly her hand was but a flash, and released it. The weapon seemed to leap into her hand, before leaving with a sharp flick and landing an inch from Michael's head with a soft thud, sliding through the wood like butter due to the near perfect angle of it. The handle wobbled with the force of the throw. Farrund startled, but did not move. He too saw the way Helen's hands had fallen to rest at her sheath again as she cleared her throat to speak.

"If anything happens to them because of you, if I find out you told anyone -just one fucking person- to stop the search before Aline orders it herself, I will find you, and I will show you the ways of the fae. We cut our game slowly, intimately, with knives as sharp as starlight, forged in a dragon’s breath. Some can keep their animals alive for many days after first cut, you know. I met one such fae, once upon a time, and they demonstrated the skill very… clearly. It's very useful information, and I would be happy to teach you." Then Helen smiled pleasantly.

Perhaps that was the cherry on top; Michael fled from the room.

Helen lost some of her tense anger, and Aline turned to her with a punch on her arm. "Hey! I had that!"

"I know," Helen said near soundlessly, drained by her demonstration. "He just got all of my sore spots in one, and I saw red."

Jace dredged up a small smile. "At least you blew up at Farrand. He deserves it."

"Really? I didn't hear much beyond the way he snarled 'fae' as if it meant 'monster' instead, to be honest."

"Oh no," Aline said, wrapping an arm around Helen's waist. Their heads leant together, Helen's blonde hair mixing with Aline's black, and they both relaxed into the touch. "He totally deserved it. He's a douche, always had been. He was transferred from Alicante a few years back. Mom said it was because he needed field training, but really it was because he was so hard to deal with. His teachers requested a transfer themselves, rumor has it."

"Oh. I'm glad it was him then."

"Besides," Aline stage-whispered, "it was kinda hot."  
"Kinda?" Helen whispered back.

"Kinda as in one hundred percent knock-me-dead sexy, of course. You know I have a thing for hot, blonde, half-fae women who could take me apart with their bare hands and manage to make me enjoy it.”

Magnus laughed, somewhat brokenly. Jace looked up at the man, who stood tall beneath the Institute’s harsh lights. His eyes were tired, and he swayed slightly in his place, but he did not budge from Alec’s side. Jace had never loved the man before this moment, but he thought that one day he may call him brother.

It was a nice thought- soothing, in fact. It gave him hope that soon this would be over. “That seems to be quite specific, Ms. Penhallow,” Magnus said, forcing humor into his voice. Jace didn’t know how he did it.

The couple shared a look and then laughed quietly together, like they were giggling at a funeral and felt guilty. “Quite,” Helen said. Aline tightened her grip around Helen’s waist, and Jace pretended he didn’t see the way the blonde clutched at her hand. Not quite hopelessly, but with something that echoed with the desperation of falling in love.

It hurt, because Clary had taught him what that felt like. She had taught him what it was to love, to breathe and ache and survive with the feeling of that desperation clogging his lungs, and now she had walked away from him. She had not come back, and Jace knew there was another kind of desperation rising behind the killing calm he was sheltering under.

“I’m sorry just- is it okay if- can you guys go?” Alec said. His gaze flickered between the two, and there was pride and quiet happiness in their bond, but also a debilitating fear. Suddenly, Jace realized that Isabelle had been speaking while the confrontation was going on, and he did not yet know what she had said. All he knew was that it must have been terrible for it to have reduced his brother to stuttering and fear.

Aline and Helen shared yet another look, measuring and quick and sweet, and when they glanced back to the family huddled on the floor their faces were hard and strong, one silver and silken and deadly, and the other brash heat and obsidian flames, and Jace let himself relax slightly. “Of course, Alec. Take care of Izzy, and we will take care of the Institute, okay?” Aline said, voice soft. Motherly, almost. She waited for his nod, and then continued, “Call me if you need anything, or if anything changes, and I will be by your side as soon as possible. That goes for all of you.” Aline meets his eyes, then Magnus’, and finally Alec’s, ensuring that they all hear her- despite the chaos.

Her eyes soften when they land again on Helen, and her girlfriend smiles back half-hopelessly and half-viciously. As if she was going to follow Aline into battle, stumbling and tripping all the way, and then have the nerve to _win_. Aline nods, decisively, and releases her arm from Helen’s waist to take her hand. The two separate, enough space between them to reach for weapons and still remain connected, and they look like warriors born from grit and hellfire. The Institute is in safe hands. “It was nice to meet you,” Helen said, “I’ve always wanted to meet Aline’s family.”

Helen Blackthorn waves breezily as her girlfriend tugs her out of the door to court-marshal a group of blood-stained soldiers into order, and then they’re gone.

Jace manages to huff a laugh with the part of him that doesn’t long to follow them, and turns his attention to Isabelle. She’s trembling still underneath his hand, aftershocks shivering through her, and Jace helps Alec pull Izzy up into his lap. When she’s situated, he moves to kneel by her side, taking her hand and entwining his fingers with hers.

“Isabelle,” he says, sharply. Alec sends him a look, and he forces his voice to soften. “Izzy, what happened? Can you still feel her?”

Izzy whimpers. Jace feels himself begin to shut down. “Iz, please, tell us what you feel. Are you certain it was the parabatai rune?” Alec says, murmuring quietly into her ear. In response, his sister simply pulls the neckline of her dress down slightly. Alec’s face whitens, his hands tightening around Izzy’s waist, and Jace…

He wants to throw up.

Instead of the black swirls of the parabatai rune, there is a scar raised from her skin. Burnt red and peeling, it resembles a demon wound or a third-degree burn. Above him, Magnus shouts, “What the fuck?”, and only nausea stops him from echoing the sentiment.

This is not what happens when a parabatai dies. When the unthinkable does occur, the one left behind is left with nothing- no mark, and no proof of them on their bodies. Only the pain their parabatai had suffered as they died is left to linger, and only as memories.

This scarring is new, as unique as anything else to do with Clary and Isabelle, and it could mean one of two things:

  * Clary is alive, and someone has taken her and is hurting her. Perhaps she found a way to cut off the bond so Isabelle doesn’t suffer, or perhaps they did that so Isabelle wouldn’t be able to track her through their bond.
  * Clary is dead. Clary is dead, and has been slaughtered in a new, imaginative way that will probably take his sister, too.



He prefers the first option. Clary in pain and suffering is terrible, but Clary dead is so, so much worse.

“Clary- she- I can’t-” Isabelle stutters, gaze frantically jumping between them. Her legs are still shaking, even with how tight they’re curled up against her chest. “I can’t feel her, Jace. She’s gone.”

Magnus is crying quietly above him. He doesn’t know when the warlock started to cry, or when he realized what this meant. It doesn’t matter. Jace sucks in a breath. “Gone- she’s dead?”

“No, no she’s not dead.” Izzy presses her eyes closed momentarily, as if fleetingly letting herself hide from a world that doesn’t have Clary in it. “She was- I felt her be taken from me, here-” she points to her chest, finger jabbing at the blistering flesh where their rune had once been. Isabelle winces. “she was being torn from me, I think, and it hurt _so_ bad, for both of us, but she was alive. Clary was screaming and protesting and- and she was alive.”

Alec’s shoulders slump in relief. Jace would too, but he glances up to see tears still streaming down Magnus’ face, and for some reason that gives him an answer. “Your bond is broken? She was torn from you?” Izzy nods shakily. “Did she- what was she feeling, just before? Can you remember?”

“I don’t-“ she cuts herself off, drawing a breath deep into her lungs. As she breathes out, she says, “She was in utter agony -worse than mine, I think- but beneath that, I think she was confused. Unsettled. But there was something understanding, too. Like she knew what was happening, and had accepted it.”

Jace stands up abruptly.

He has to find her. He waited for Izzy, made sure she was safe and healthy, and now he must find Clary before- before it’s too late. “Where are you going?” Alec says, tiredly. They both know Alec already knows the answer. They both know that if he wasn’t the Head of the Institute -if he didn’t have a thousand different responsibilities to fulfill- Alec would be doing the exact same thing.

“To Clary,” Jace answers. His heart beats alongside it, has since the first time he ever saw her for what she was, and will until its last. _To Clary, to Clary, to Clary._ Alec crumples even further into himself, but he still manages to protest.

“We already have the Institute looking for her, and Simon will undoubtedly reel in some vampires to search too. You won’t find anything that they won’t find faster.”

“I’m the best tracker in the Institute.”

“Not like this,” Alec says, refusing to bend. Jace stops. Thinks.

“What would you do?” he asks, and they both know what he means. He doesn’t mean what Alec would do for Magnus, his own lover, or what he’d do if the tables were turned and Clary was here while Isabelle suffered elsewhere, condition unknown. Jace wants Alec to think about what he would do for Clary, and what Clary would do for him.

Because he knows the answer to both of those questions is _anything_ , and so he knows Alec can’t stop him.

“Magnus, please go help them track Clary. Reinforce the wards on the Institute as well, while you’re at it; we can negotiate the fee later.” Magnus gives his new husband a measuring look, before ceding to the plea in Alec’s eyes. Inclining his head respectfully and wiping at his eyes, Magnus squeezes Alec’s hand before letting go. As he passes Jace, he claps him on the shoulder, looking him in the eyes as he says, “It will be alright, Jace. We’ll find her.”

Jace only nods, refusing to speak about finding her when he wasn’t even out there _looking_. The warlock does not speak again -his teeth grinding as if he had expected this, too- and then leaves. Magic begins to spark at his hands as he walks, vivid and powerful and electric, and Jace watches him until he is out of sight. Not once does Magnus turn around.

Jace sets his jaw. He turns back to face Alec. His brother looks faded in the disappearing light, and it reminds him of another time and place, where Alec had stood on the edge of a balcony and had let himself fall. Slowly, Jace forces down the wish for violence that had been rising in him and makes his expression still.

“I would scour the earth for her,” Alec says. The words fracture something in him, and a tear leaks down his face. Jace wants to protest, wants to say that Clary’s not dead and there’s no reason for tears, but option 2 is seeming more and more likely by the minute and a cruel, loving part of Jace wants Alec to be prepared. “I would look everywhere I had power to go to find Clary. She’s my sister. Was my sister, long before you decided you would die for her and Izzy did the same, long before it was written into Izzy’s skin.”

Izzy is looking up at her brother, now, and her expression is filled with a kind of surprised fondness that he’s never seen before. “But you are my brother, and Izzy my sister, and I have more than just one responsibility. I have the Institute, and the shadowhunters under my command, and I have to keep you both safe. For our parents, and for Simon, and- and for Clary.”

“Alec, you know this isn’t you acting for them,” Izzy reprimands quietly. The pain must have died down, but her hands still tremble, and perhaps this is why Alec bends.

“I know,” he says, voice breaking like a dam before a flood. “I know. But I can’t lose you too. I can’t. If Clary’s out there alone -suffering or dying or _dead_ \- then I need you here, with me.”

“If Clary’s out there, alone, then she needs us there with her.” Izzy softens her words with a pained smile, but they still make another tear fall.

“I’m going-” _to Clary_ “-will you stop me?”

Alec sighs, and Jace knows his answer. “No. I can’t, can I?”

Jace grins, and lets some of his rage and destruction echo in it. Not for Alec, but for the world that saw fit to take Clary from him. “You can’t. But thanks for trying.”

As Jace is walking out, hand loose around his blade and blood rushing in his ears, he hears Izzy say, “You could have. Stopped him, that is.”

And Alec, his brother and friend and parabatai, replies, “Yes. As his current superior, I could have. As his parabatai, I definitely should have. But as _her_ brother, there is no way that I would be able to. Not when my instincts are screaming to join him and fight at his side until we are by her side again.”

Shocked, but not necessarily surprised, Jace pulls another blade from a sheath at his thigh and thinks, _that right there; that’s my Alec._

* * *

Sometimes, he wonders what she did to deserve it. How could someone like Clary _ever_ deserve it?

The letter says it was because of the runes she created, but that just reeks of bullshit. How could they give her such power, and then fault her for using it? How could they fault her at all, when she had only ever used it to help people? If the angels are truly so cruel, then he was right not to believe in them. Everything they’d been taught about them was a lie, if Clary was telling the truth in her letter.

He had found it when he returned to her rooms, just before he planned to leave to search himself; wanting to pick up some of Clary’s things to track. Instead, he had entered and had realized that a few of Clary’s most personal items had disappeared. It would be as if someone had stolen them if it were not for the fact that they were things that only Clary would want.

Her favorite sketchbook. The bracelet Luke had given her after her mother died. A few little knickknacks that had been dotted around her room: a scrap of silk that had once been a scarf, which Izzy had given her; a miniature painted canvas of Magnus’ eyes, from when she had tried to do a study of him; a masquerade mask she had made with Alec when they were hunting demons but ended up trapped in a craft shop (long story), and a mug filled with different colored chalks, that Jace had bought her. But also, a dozen picture frames that had housed images of those she loved.

Jace had been wondering just how long Clary had known that this was coming _-How long had she known what_ this _was? Did she know it would take her away from them?-_ when his eyes fell on the envelope. Laying on top of it, innocuous and unassuming, was her stele.

People don’t leave letters unless they plan on not coming back. Shadowhunters don’t leave their steles behind unless they _know_ they will not come back.

There’s a brief moment where all he does is close his eyes and think, _Clary? How could you?_ Then, the world resumes its turning and the wind its whistling, and Jace collapses on his girlfriend’s bed, running a hand over the soft cover. They had picked it together when Clary complained about all the identical decorations in the Institute’s bedrooms, and most nights had been spent under it, curled up together while the fire burned in the corner.

Clary had been feeling cold since she killed Jonathan, and he had dismissed it as a mix of guilt and exhaustion. Now he wondered if it had been a sign of a greater, horrid picture.

It was too late now though, in far too many ways, and so he was alone as he sat on a too-comfy bed. It felt odd. Too quiet. Too peaceful, when the universe itself should be rioting. So, he picked up the letter, and ran his knife under the seal.

Better to read it quick, right? Rip it off like a bandage… or something like that. Then he could finally go search for Clary. With shaking fingers, he pulled out the letter.

* * *

_Dear Jace,_

_By the time you read this letter, my memories of you and the shadow world will be gone. It was the price the angels made me pay for the runes I’ve created. I didn’t tell you, because ~~I didn’t want you to worry,~~ I’m a coward. This is ~~one of the most terrifying things I’ve ever experienced,~~ yet another thing I never expected, a dreadful consequence of my own making, and I didn’t want to watch you all suffer through it too. _

_Plus, it’s Alec and Magnus’ wedding day. You can say I’m a coward, but you can’t say that I don’t have great timing, love._

_My time with you, Alec, Izzy, the Institute, and all the other people of the shadow world opened up skills and experiences I could never imagine having before all of this, and I will never be able to explain how grateful I am to you in just one letter, so I’m going to leave it at that._

_I wish I could tell you that I’ll remember you one day, that I’ll have an epiphany and return to the Institute. I can’t. So, while this is a goodbye from me, this is also me asking you to do the same. I know you, Jace, and I love you, but you can’t bring me back from this. ~~I’m scared that~~ I don’t want to bring you down with me, darling, and so this is a price I must pay on my own. All you have to do is let me. _

_Let me go, and let yourself live._

_If I ever do regain my memories -if the angels turn out to be more generous than they seem, and they give me mercy for the blood that I share with them- I swear to you that I will return, guns a’blazin. But, until that day, I want you to continue being the man I fell in love with._

_You’re brash, and an idiot, and I love you more than life itself. One day, someone else will, too. (And that day will be beautiful, and incredible, and I want you to grab onto it with both hands and never let it go. For me, if not for yourself.)_

_For now, and maybe forever, my memories are lost. Taken, by the same angels that gave us life. But I can’t bear the thought of my stele being lost forever, any more than I can bear the thought of leaving you forever, and so I am entrusting it to you. I do not know its history, nor do I know its past owners, but it is the only heirloom I have to give you. I had hoped to one day give you a ring, in the custom of my childhood, or perhaps a bracelet and a rune, in the custom of yours._

_All I know is that this stele belonged to my mother. I do not know who it belonged to before it was hers. Perhaps it was Valentine’s, or even my grandmother’s. Perhaps this was the stele that tied my Jocelyn Fairchild to Valentine Morgenstern, the day of their wedding._

_I had hoped, once, that this stele might one day bind us in the same way. But that cannot happen now, and for that I am so sorry._

_At the moment of writing this letter, you’re with Alec. You’re down the hall, helping your parabatai get ready for his grand wedding, and I can hear you laughing. It’s so beautiful, and I’m so glad that you can do that now. I’m so very glad that you will still have Alec to laugh with, and Magnus to tease him with, and Izzy to spar with._

_I think Alec just made fun of you for something, because I can hear him laughing too, now. If I’m being honest, I’m smiling a bit too manically and Izzy is looking at me like I’m insane. Hopefully she’ll just write it off as being an effect of the wedding stress._

_Speaking of Izzy, I don’t think she knows. She’s been giving me weird looks, and has tried to question me subtly about the ~~fear and confusion~~ spikes of emotion I’ve been feeling, but she hasn’t outright demanded I tell her. It only makes me love her more, but I think she might grow to hate herself for it, in time. I left her a letter, too, as well as Simon and Magnus._

_This is probably going to be considerably shorter, so don’t go getting jealous._

_Sorry. I’m trying to be funny, and keep my mood up, so Izzy doesn’t notice a dip. I never realized parabatai bonds were so sensitive before -sometimes I can tell what Iz is thinking just from what she’s feeling- but I think she’s in the same boat. Neither of us realized what it would be like, but I’m glad I did it. It’s a nice experience to have, even if I don’t remember it._

_Izzy’s behind me, curling my hair while shouting at you. I think she wants you to sort out some part of the ceremony- the rings! You great idiot. Did you really lose them? Anyway, yes, Izzy is doing my hair and making me all pretty-like. She wanted to know what the letters were for, and I told her they were a gift. It’s not quite a lie, but I feel guilty anyway._

_Somehow I feel as if I am committing a crime against you and the others. Sitting here, Izzy’s kind hands in my hair, your and Alec’s voices echoing down the hall, Simon undoubtedly breaking objects left and right while he ‘helps’ Magnus, and I can’t help but think of the life we could have had, if a thousand different things had happened instead of what did. You taught me what it was to love someone with every cell in your body, Jace. I would have lived my entire life with you, and I would have been so eternally happy._

_We could have spent our lives at war, or huddled up at home, or travelling the world, and I would have been happy. All I would have asked is that you let me love you, and that would be enough._

_I would have liked to raise a family with you, my love, but I would be content either way. You would be an amazing dad. I like to think that Isabelle would be our kid’s aunt, and Alec and Magnus and Simon would be their uncles. And Max, of course. They would teach them to be strong, and fierce, and how to wield love and death with equal grace. ~~They~~ I can’t do this. That’s enough of the pipe dreams, now._

_Last night, I spent hours just watching you; watching the way the moonlight cast its shadows across your features, begging the angels for more time with you. I tried to memorize your face, tried to pull it deep within me and tie it to something vital, something more permanent than my heart. Of course, every part of my heart is you already. Sadly, I don’t think it will be enough._

_You and I spent many years together and have experienced many adventures together which I will always be grateful for. Many times, they have put our lives at risk but we have always managed to survive in the end. You have saved my life on many occasions, and I do not think I have ever given more of myself to a person than I have to you. When all of that disappears, I think I will be a hollow shell. Clary Fray was never all of me; I had felt like I was missing something for many years before I found it in you, and your family, and your world._

_But I have no regrets. Even if I don’t remember you, you will always be in my heart, whether I know it or not. There is no one that deserves to be loved as much as you do, Jace. Every part of you is brilliant and beautiful and bleeding with love, and I want you to know that this is not your fault. I made my choice, and I am sorry for it, but I do not regret it._

_I would burn the world down, before I let a single flame touch you._

_What is it Jonathan once said? ‘We are Morgensterns, children of Lucifer, and we are so much lovelier when we Fall,’ I think it was. Regardless of the exact words, know this: I love you as the moon loves all the stars in the sky, and I will love you until this world is nothing but ash between those stars, and even then, what is left of me will love you. Ash to ash, dust to dust. This was as inevitable as our meeting, as inevitable as the birth of love and original sin._

_Do not fret, my love. As long as I can still dream, I will dream of you._

_Love,_

_Clary x_

* * *

He did not move from her bed for a very, very long time. After hours had passed (minutes) and his breathing had steadied with the passing of the decades (seconds), he slowly pulled his phone from his pocket. With shaking fingers, he called his brother.

“Hello?” Alec says, hopeful and kind and so, so ignorant. _How does he not feel it? How does he not feel the crumbling of the world beneath his hands?_ “Did you find anything?”

“No.” Too blunt. Too cruel. Clary would want him to be kind. _Clary can’t want anything anymore- not from him. Not from a shadowhunter._ “She’s- this was her choice.”

“What?” His brother seems too shocked. Briefly, Jace wonders where Izzy is. He hopes that Alec moved her to her room in the years (lifetimes) it had taken him to stir into motion. If he hadn’t, she might just leap from the floor and charge into the world as she was.

Jace takes too long to respond, and Alec starts breathing rapidly. “Jace, talk to me, what happened? Has she messaged you?”

“She left a letter. It’s real sweet,” he says, voice sharp and brittle. He feels like he might shatter if someone looked at him wrong. Normally, Clary would be here to hold his pieces together. Too many times he had let her absorb the shrapnel of his pain, and too many times had he let himself implode in front of her. Regardless, he would give anything to have her in front of him now, looking at him like she loved him.

Like she knew him.

He had the feeling she might never do either of those things again.

“What did she say?” Jace coughs. Clears his throat. Alec makes a soft, encouraging noise, and Jace has to wipe a hand over his eyes.

“She said that the angels- those stupid fucking bastards took her memories, Alec. They took her memories for saving us- for saving their so-called children- and now she’s just wandering the mortal world. No protection. No safety.” He hears Alec cursing, and then listens half-heartedly as he rattles off a list of instructions to someone by his side. Maybe Magnus, but more likely Izzy with how injured she’d been. Christ. _Izzy_.

Jace presses his eyes closed and digs his thumb and forefinger into them. He won’t cry. Not yet. Not now. “What else did she say, Jace,” Alec says, voice softer than ever. Gasping for breath suddenly, Jace lets out a sob. “Did she say where she was going?”

“No. She just said that- that she loved me as much as- more than they could ever take away, and that she was sorry, to you and Magnus, and to Izzy and Simon, and to me. She also said that I was an idiot, that I should take care of myself and that- Alec, Alec she’s not coming back,” he sobbed. He had given up on not crying, now. If anyone had ever deserved his weakness, it was Clary fucking Morgenstern.

“Okay,” his brother says, as much a command as any other he’s given on a battlefield. “We will still look, Jace. I will tell the teams already deployed to bear in mind that they may not be recognized or Seen, and when they find her, I will have a rota organized to keep track of her. It will be okay, Jace. We’ve got this. They can keep an eye on her, make sure she gets somewhere safe, and- and we will sort the rest out later on, okay?”

“Okay,” Jace whispers, brokenly. Alec breathes out slowly, and Jace realises that he had been holding his breath.

“Okay,” Alec repeats. “Okay. Do you want to help, or would you rather have some time to yourself? Don’t forget that I can feel you, parabatai, so don’t go trying to weasel your way out.”

“I should. I know I should. But-“ he hesitates, thinking of a woman stretched out in her bed across the Institute from him -his sister, who cries for her own parabatai. He thinks of the woman who taught him how to love and be loved, and how much she had sacrificed for her parabatai and him: their family and their world. Lastly, he thinks what both those women would want him to do in this moment, and how united their hearts would be in their wish.

For all that his heart beats for Clary - _to Clary_ \- he knows that if he went out like this he would not help anyone. He knows that if he went out there, looking for his lover with this emptiness in his heart and he found her…

He would collapse. Implode. “-I think that this isnt something I can do. Should do. Clary wouldn’t- if this letter is telling the truth, then she wouldn’t want me to see her like that. She wouldn’t want me to- to look in her eyes, and see no recognition.” Alec hums, and Jace takes a moment to swallow, hard.

“Jace, it’s okay,” Alec says. There’s another ruffle and a sharp _shing_ sound -the melody of Alec planning a war. Eyes fluttering closed, Jace draws a deep breath into his lungs and allows himself to find comfort in the scent of jasmine and coconuts that fills his nostrils. There is nothing Alec would not do for Clary. She is in safe hands. Letter creasing in his grip, Jace breathes out.

“I am going to look with the next group, okay? I’ve left the Institute in Aline’s hands for now -Angel knows none of us are fully capable of leading right now- and I will keep looking until we find her. Which we will. She will live, and be safe again. You will-“ Alec’s breath hitches, sentence being discarded in the breath moment it takes to remember just how much Jace had loved his morning star. “-It will be alright. Eventually.”

Jace grunts- a boorish sound that Clary loved to mock far too much, with her bright eyes and lips twisted with a mix of humor and affection- and Alec says nothing. After a brief pause, the line clicks off. Jace sinks back onto her bed. Her favourite pillow greets him; the soft, fluffy cover tickles at his skin. He lifts up just enough to yank it from beneath his head, and tosses it on the floor.

The ceiling is a bright, smooth white without her projector mirroring the night sky onto it, but his gaze fixes on it nonetheless. Fury beats a steady war drum in his gut, his thoughts stained with violence and misery; marching along to his fierce anger with a bloodthirstiness that should scare him. It doesn’t. The poets might disagree, might say that it was sorrow that pounded in his veins.

Then again, he was no poet. Poets were mortal and fragile and human, and he was none of those things. He lived but did not die, broke but did not shatter, and loved with more brutality than he did kindness. His lover -his sweet, war-torn, beautiful Clary- was gone in every way that mattered except one. Nothing poetic in that. The only poetic thing he’d ever done was loving her, and he hadn’t even done that right.


End file.
